


Don't Deny Your Vital Signs

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [23]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All Souls Night, Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Ronin - Freeform, Soul Bond, fancy parties, secretly badass Clint, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: When Agent of SHIELD Phillip J Coulson unexpectedly bonds with new recruit Clint "Hawkeye" Barton, he promptly panics and rejects the bond. Misunderstandings and missed chances ensue, until the annual All Souls Gala offers Clint one last opportunity to prove to Phil that he's the man's perfect match.





	Don't Deny Your Vital Signs

The suit shoots him, puts a nine-millimeter slug through his leg, but the gunshot wound's not half the shock that touching him is. 

Clint's heart jumps in his chest, jolts, starts beating double time then slowly settles into a calm, even, steady cadence softly echoed by another that meets it and matches it like a perfect carbon copy. 

His... 

His _soulmate._

Clint's thought about this moment. 

Dreamed about it. 

Despite everything, the abandonment and the abuse and the long, weary life he'd led he... he had always _hoped._

Pulse thrumming at his wrists, in his throat, he moves to turn his hand in the suit's grip, to curl their fingers together as an awed smile spreads across his face and then... 

And then he's dropped like a hot potato, backed away from as he hits the pavement, yelping in pain. His heart thumps as he's given a cold shoulder like he's never been given before, deep and bruising as a mental wall goes up between them that he has no hope of reaching through. 

Locked into a pair of high-tech handcuffs, he's shuffled onto a plane and that's the last he sees of his soulbonded for two months.

**AVAVA**

"Come on Barton, everybody's going," Hunter cajoles, tossing Clint half a meatball sub wrapped in butcher paper. "You skipped last year; you can't skip this year too."

"Watch me," Clint scoffs, unwrapping his share of the sandwich and taking a huge bite, just to talk around the mouthful a second later. "Wouldn't catch me dead at one of those things." 

Hunter scowls at him, flicks a sweet-and-sour pickle across the table in his direction. 

"What have you got against the Gala Hawk?" he asks, only a little bit bitter, and Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snarling, from spilling his deepest, most closely held secret to this man who is his friend, but who would still laugh him out of the SHIELD cafeteria if he knew. 

"Sorry," he grits out, because he knows Lance is still Unbonded, still hoping that one of these times fate will bend and he'll match to Bobbi Morse, another Unbonded SHIELD agent he's been completely gone on for years. "I just... it's not my thing." 

"Not _your_ thing, or not Coulson's?" 

Clint's cheeks heat and he looks away, down at the table where his fingers pick at his lunch. He's never told _anyone_ that he'd asked Phil to SHIELD's annual All-Souls Gala last year and got turned down hard, never really told him how much it hurts that his soulbonded has singularly avoided him since the day they'd met two years ago. It had been panic in that moment, sheer panic when they'd bonded unexpectedly on the rooftop in the middle of what was (unbeknownst to him at the time) a recruitment, but Clint could forgive him for that, _had_ forgiven him. 

But the fact that he'd disappeared for two months? 

He hadn't known what to make of it, and it had _hurt,_ physically and emotionally. 

Still does. 

Sighing, Hunter tosses him a sympathetic look that suggests he's not as stupid as Clint wishes he was, that the situation isn't as secret as he'd like it to be. To be fair it's really only _half_ Clint's fault – sure, he'd followed around at Coulson's heels like a puppy, his crush painfully obvious to anyone with eyes, but the rest of it, the way Coulson treats _him?_

That's all on the senior agent, and he's taking no part of that blame. 

In his bluer moments he tells himself he gets it. He's smokin' hot and good with a bow, but really, that's where his talents end. He's a fifth-grade drop-out ex-carnie, dyslexic and half-deaf and a hot mess most days. More than anything he'd just been pathetic his first year at headquarters, begging for whatever scrap of attention or information he could scrounge up about his soulbonded, bucking orders and regulations left and right. He'd been... well, _he_ wouldn't have wanted to be bonded to Clint Barton, so why would Coulson? 

He's better now. The first time Coulson had turned away from him with well-masked disdain lurking at the corners of his mouth he had straightened up, gotten his shit together, and started working. He'd found mentors in Melinda May and Maria Hill, an unexpected ally in Sitwell, friends in Hunter and the other snipers, and started to listen instead of just nodding along like the stupid, stubborn hick he liked to play. He'd sharpened his instincts, attacked his own weaknesses, and made himself into one of the most requested specialists in the organization. He'd just made Level Three when he'd approached Phil seriously for the first time, asked formally to escort him as his soulbonded to the Gala, and Coulson had offered little more than a cold, flat-out no before turning on his heel and stalking away. 

It had nearly crushed him at the time. He'd been trying, really trying, but the damage had already been done it seemed, and Coulson had never really given him a first chance so Clint held little hope of getting a second one. He knows he'd acted shamefully, can see that now, his head and his heart all twisted up with getting hauled in out of the cold, offered the opportunity to be something better, and all under the supervisory eye of his new soulbonded... 

Yeah, he'd been a mess, so most of the time he gets it. 

Other times... 

Other times he's pissed ok? 

Because no matter how much of an ass he'd made of himself, he should've gotten equal treatment. Once he'd realized that Coulson wasn't interested, once he realized that the mental wall was staying up and his bonded was rejecting him, he'd thought, he'd _hoped..._

He doesn't know. 

Hoped that Coulson could forgive him his nonsense, forgive him his childish ideas of what their bond could be. 

At that point he'd given up the hope of being looked at like he mattered, like he was special. All he could really hope for anymore was that he would get the same cool, competent professionalism at SHIELD that any other specialist got from spy's spy senior agent Phillip J Coulson. 

Turned out that hope had been a little high. 

It's nothing overt of course, nothing dangerous, but there's a distinctive chill whenever Coulson talks to him. In and out, that's the way of it whenever they're on the same team, as quick as feasibly possible. He doesn't spend any more time in a room with Clint than he has to, looks distinctly uncomfortable whenever Clint's around, and it hurts but he supposes it could be worse. Other agents have noticed but no one has dared to comment, not to his face at least. He's pretty sure there's a betting pool going around about the circumstances behind the rejected bond, but he's not brave enough to go poking into it, doesn't even really want to know how people found out that they _were_ bondmates. 

He suspects Phil's best friend Jasper Sitwell, who has a propensity for gambling and is the proctor of the underground pools. 

"You could still go," Hunter suggests casually, picking through his bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. "You wouldn't be the only one." 

"Yes I would," Clint argues flatly, dropping what's left of his sandwich onto the paper, wrapping it back up again as his appetite deserts him. "You know I would." 

"Plenty of singles..." 

_"Unbonded singles,"_ he interrupts, glaring. "Unbonded. That's the point, moron." 

Kinda the point anyway. Every major town and city, hell every tiny one that could afford it threw a Gala each year on All Souls Night, an elaborate affair meant to serve only one purpose – to celebrate the bond by helping the Unbonded find their soulmate. SHIELD has bastardized theirs of course; though it continues to serve as a meet-and-mingle for those agents still searching, it's also an open invitation to the defectors, a chance to come in out of the cold and declare their willingness to be courted by the organization without risking arrest. The Gala is neutral territory, immune time, and more than one active SHIELD agent had submitted their application by showing up. 

Clint's heard that the mercenary Wade Wilson turns up every year like clockwork. 

"Look man," Hunter sighs, wiping his mouth with a napkin before crumpling it and tossing it down. "You two are killing me. I don't know what the hell Coulson's problem is but the way I see it, you can't lose by showing up with a date or picking somebody up for a little consolation sex. Either Coulson gets jealous and comes to his senses or you know for sure he's not interested and you move on." 

"That's a stupid plan," Clint mutters, kicking back from the table and rocking his chair onto two legs. 

"Oh, and yours is so much better? Sitting at home to mope? Jesus, at least sign up to chaperone." 

Clint scowls, shakes his head. 

That's what Phil does every year, goes stag to work the room and keep his eye on things. It's mostly Bonded agents that chaperone, enjoying all the thrill and luxury of the Gala while still earning a paycheck, marked out by a black wristband to indicate their status. It had been like a goddamn knife in his chest when Clint had learned that Phil had gone to the Gala without him last year, his wrists bare. 

"I give up," Hunter mutters with disgust, sweeping their trash onto a tray he'd snagged off a nearby table. Clint has to leap to rescue the remains of his sandwich – Wednesdays are mystery meat days in the SHIELD caf and he'd worked hard to wheedle half of Hunter's delivery from him – he's not about to let it get bussed. "If you decide to grow a pair I can hook you up with a date as long as you give me a couple days." 

"Right," Clint mutters as Hunter gets up and starts to walk away. "Thanks for... that."

**AVAVA**

It's stupid.

He shouldn't do it. 

He _knows_ he shouldn't do it, even without Natasha telling him how stupid it is. 

He's going to do it anyway. 

She owes him, is the thing. No matter if she was ready or not, she owes him a debt, and so she would do it if he asked. What he thinks she doesn't understand is that he wouldn't ask at all if he didn't think she _was_ ready to come in out of the cold. 

See, Clint and the Black Widow go way back. 

Further than Clint and Coulson do anyway. 

She's his friend, his confidant, his sister, and she means more to him than anyone, if only because Coulson makes it that way. 

Even after he'd joined SHIELD he had kept in touch with her, unwilling to lose her even if she was on the organizations Most Wanted list. He won't give her away, but neither can he give her up, so it's all furtive letters and untraceable calls between them, safe drops and messages left around the world. She knows all about Clint's Bonded, as much as he knows about the man anyway, and to say that she's less than impressed is an understatement. 

So when he asks her to accompany him to the SHIELD Gala on All Souls Night, he does it because he knows it's time for her to come in, and because he needs her. 

She does it because she owes him a debt, and he thinks maybe because she loves him just a little bit, as much as she's capable of loving. 

"I am sorry it has happened this way Little Bird," she says quietly as they lie together in the dark, in the opulent hotel room she's taken for the occasion. 

"You don't believe in love," he says hoarsely, determined not to cry in front of her, not because of this. 

"I never said that," she argues, her fingers tightening in his hair where she's been stroking it back from his forehead. "I said it was for children, whose hearts big enough and open enough to see beyond the pain of this world and hope for more." 

"I..." 

"You _hope,_ Clint," she murmurs, pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. "You are worth more than this world has given you and in your heart, you believe that. If this man, this Phillip Coulson cannot see this..." 

"Haven't really given him the chance Nat," he says, shaking his head when she makes a grumble of protest. "No, it's not... I mean, you're right, I am... better. I know it's not _all_ me ok? Some of this shit's definitely on him, but I didn't... give him the best first impression. Or second. Or... ever really." 

Natasha is quiet, dangerously still for all of a moment. 

"Explain." 

Clint's cheeks go hot and he squirms, but she still has a tight grip on his hair and he knows better than to think he's going to get away. 

"Do you remember when you first met me?" he asks, embarrassed. "Do you remember Argentina?" 

Against the top of his head, Natasha nods. 

"It was like that," he whispers. "It was like _that_ guy trying to woo the Black Widow. Like, fawning over her." 

He can feel her scowling at him, knows how she feels about his propensity to separate their assassin personas from who they really are, but he doesn't know how to better explain himself. 

"It's just, he's a badass Nat," he tries again. "Like, _you-level_ badass. He's _the_ Agent Coulson, he's scary efficient and competent and he just..." 

"You're in love with him." 

"He's my soulbonded," Clint mumbles shamefacedly. "Aren't I supposed to be?" 

"You know it doesn't work that way." 

It doesn't, not always anyway. 

Sure, most often soulbondeds are your classic soulmates, hella in love and crazy about each other, but it doesn't always turn out that cliched. Sometimes bondeds are just friends, or perfect work partners, or any number of other things, but... 

But he _is_ in love with Coulson. 

Has fallen for him hard over the two years he's been with SHIELD, two years he's spent watching, and pining, and wanting. 

He's hopeless. 

"So you haven't given him much of a good impression," Natasha says slowly, in the way she does when she's working out a problem. "He does not think it would be a good match?" 

"If I had to guess," he agrees. "Yeah." 

"Well then." 

"Well then what?" he asks, instantly terrified even though he had asked her here, asked her to help. 

"Well then that is not so hard to fix." 

"Nat, the Gala's tomorrow," he reminds her, as if anyone in this stupid world could forget when All Souls Night was. "You can't undo two years of bad image in one night. Besides, I'm probably gonna get thrown into a cell when I show up with you, so..." 

"No you won't," she reassures, certain. "Now go to sleep. Let me handle tomorrow." 

He doesn't know how. 

It's stupid, stupid to even try, but... 

But he trusts her, even if he doesn't understand. 

He goes to sleep.

**AVAVA**

Clint is panicking.

Straight up, full out panicking. 

Natasha smacks him for it and sends him into the bathroom to get ready, because they only have two hours until they're due to arrive fashionably late at SHIELD's All Souls Gala and they 'don't have time for his nonsense.' 

That's fair he thinks. Sure, this isn't what he'd had in mind when he'd asked Natasha for her help, but she's not asking him to do anything more or anything worse than what he's asking her to do. 

Come in from the cold... 

As he scrubs down under a scalding hot shower he considers the ramifications of what he's about to do. Hawkeye had been forcibly brought in to SHIELD two years ago, with a bullet wound in his thigh. Clint Barton had become a highly requested asset within the organization. He's an archer, a sniper, does his best work at a distance, is completely incapable of being serious and silent on the comms. He's a pizza-eating, dog-loving, always-flirting goof-off, and he... 

That's who he really is. 

That's the guy he _wants_ to be. 

Ronin... 

Ronin is who he had to be, who he needed to be to keep himself alive. 

Ronin is darker, more deadly, serious and wild and wary. Not feral, not with his control, no, Ronin is a lone wolf, dangerous in his isolation. 

Ronin is everything that he thinks Coulson would appreciate in a mate, but for his slightly looser morals and slightly more crooked compass. 

He doesn't... 

He doesn't _want_ Coulson to like Ronin more, doesn't think he can make himself _be_ Ronin, even if it would snag him his soul bonded, but... 

But Natasha thinks this will work, thinks that he only needs to prove to the man that he _can_ be more, that he's not just a total spaz but that he can be smooth and efficient and badass when needs must. 

What better way to do it than this, to show up as Ronin with the Black Widow on his arm? 

No one _knows_ he's Ronin. 

He's been careful to keep it that way. 

Hawkeye is one thing, but Ronin and the Black Widow are another – the only reason he hasn't totally freaked and whisked them both away to a safehouse on the other side of the world is that All Souls Galas are neutral ground, no-man's land. Any villain, small-time sidekick or bad guy, ex-KGB – you name it – can attend the Gala knowing full well they won't be picked up. 

He and Nat will walk away from this, but he doesn't know if he'll be able to go back. 

Getting out of the shower, he towel dries his hair roughly and brushes his teeth, foregoing the shave because Ronin is a little different than Hawkeye and he might as well start getting into the mindset. Ronin wears bristly stubble because in a way he cares less – still in peak condition but not so concerned with other things. His hair gets shaggy and he bench presses less, because he needs to be leaner and faster and smarter than Hawkeye, who throws himself off of buildings far more readily than Ronin. 

Black leggings, black UnderArmour, long sleeves that normally he would hate, but he's already sinking down into that place where his head is quieter. He moves differently as Ronin, but a few lunges and stretches limber him up, remind him of the limitations of the uniform. 

"Are you ready?" 

He's not. 

He doesn't know how she always beats him but she always seems to manage it – showered and shaved, lotioned and conditioned and perfumed before he's even managed to get his socks on his feet. She's slipped into a black dress that's all shimmer and silk, but Clint smirks because like her, there's much more to it than that. The neckline, shoulders, and high belt mimic the straps of a harness even if they look elegant and chic, leaving her back and arms bare. The full skirt comes to her knees, leaving a mile of tanned leg on display, the smooth curve of her calves accentuated by the killer black stilettoes on her feet. 

He means that literally by the way – he's seen her kill a man with those heels, and he's pretty sure she's got about six or seven weapons on her despite the overall lack of material the dress is made of. 

Make that eight. 

"Help me with this," she demands, even though he's standing there half-dressed and still damp. 

Dropping a thin gold chain into his hand, she turns her back to him, her neck bare beneath the sweep of an exquisite up-do. His hands are steady as he fastens the necklace for her, even though they want to shake. He'd given her the tiny arrow charm years ago, fully expecting her to lose it or throw it out, or even just tuck it away somewhere. By donning it tonight she's sending a message, to him and to Coulson, and he's totally ok with that. 

"Thanks Nat," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her waist to hold her close. 

"Get dressed," she says quietly, but she pats his hand before she slips away from him. "Put on your eyeliner." 

"Yes ma'am."

**AVAVA**

He's calm walking into the ballroom SHIELD's rented out from a local hotel. Wouldn't be New York without a couple of fancy-schmancy options, and people tend to go full-out for All Souls Night, so he's met by opulence beyond most anything he's ever seen before; marble floors, vaulted ceilings, huge glass doors leading out to wide patios, and in the very center a glittering crystal chandelier. His senses are assaulted in a rush, even through the mask, cowl, and hood of Ronin's black and gold ninja suit - music, laughter, the clink of glass and swish of satin, color and light and movement everywhere.

Natasha's hand tightens on his elbow in warning where she's threaded her arm though his, entering at the top of the stairs, and there's an instant murmur of intrigue running the edges of the room. Beneath his hood he smirks and starts the descent to the dancefloor, escorting her like the gentleman he's really not. They take their time, not bothering to hide the fact that they're casing the place, and it only takes mere seconds for the first person to recognize them, for the first sharp edge to cut in on the whispers. 

In his full Ronin attire he's hard to mistake. 

Nat's a bit more subtle, but she's tied a delicate corsage of black ribbon and blood red roses to her wrist. For those who aren't as quick as the rest, she's added a needle-thin pin blade, the handle a jeweled, onyx spider that sparkles under the lights. 

It's a statement, and a warning – the Widow isn't here to look for a soulmate. 

Ignoring the sudden volley of harsh, harried whispers, Clint leads Nat to the dancefloor, just in time for an orchestral number to start. Offering her a formal bow which she returns with a brief curtsey, he takes her into his arms and leads her into a waltz. 

It's romantic, he thinks, from the outside. The beauty, the decadence, the slow songs and the formal dancing. A night of hope, a night of excitement as you speak and touch with as many people as you can, hoping, hoping. Alternatively, a night of quiet joy, a night spent in the lavish yet comforting presence of the person the universe has chosen for you. 

Clint's throat gets tight as he leads Natasha in sweeping arcs across the floor, his eyes scanning the crowd restlessly. He spots Tony Stark dancing with his bonded Pepper Potts – he likes to drop in every year to eavesdrop and piss off Maria Hill – and Wade Wilson is making his rounds, scarred hands bare and vulnerable. Nat knows what he's doing, of course she does, and she's very purposefully staying loose and relaxed, letting him lead despite the fact that her dancing is still far superior to his, no matter how well SHIELD has taught him. 

Doesn't mean she doesn't take pity on him and take that lead away when he finally catches sight of Coulson and locks up stiff as a board. 

He's staring. 

Coulson, not... not Clint. 

Clint's too professional to stop dead in the middle of the dance floor, and Natasha's managing to keep him in time with the music, so he can only catch fleeting glances as she spins him around, but Coulson is flat out staring at him, and the look on his face makes a shiver run down Clint's spine. 

Hawkeye's been on the receiving end of that look before, see? 

For a moment, just a moment, right before Coulson's fingers wrapped around his wrist and the bond snapped into place. 

It's a look of intense interest, of curiosity, of personal pride and professional hunger, a senior agent bringing in a mark, and it floods his belly with something hot and anxious that he doesn't understand. 

Coulson's gaze is dark and intent, even from this distance, his posture forcibly relaxed. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, his shoulders back, but Clint can practically see him leaning forward on the balls of his feet, salivating over the prospect of approaching Ronin and the Black Widow. 

He's never looked at Clint like that. 

But... 

He looks good. 

Clint manages to snort quietly, to shake himself out of his nonsense and tighten his hand on Natasha's taking over once again just in time for the dance to end. Coulson always looks good. Just because Clint's never seen this suit before, it doesn't mean anything. Doesn't matter that the bright blue brings out his eyes, that the burgundy pocket square matches perfectly, that the thick-framed glasses make him look even more confident and sharp. 

No, all that matters it that his white shirtsleeves are buttoned tight around his wrists, no black ribbon in sight. 

Clint's wearing one. 

It's hidden under his gloves and gauntlets, the armor that protects his wrists, but he's wearing one. 

Even if he weren't the gloves themselves send a message, just like the absence of Wade's do – _Not Looking._

If he weren't in Ronin mode, if his heart weren't completely shut down in favor of thinking with his head, he might have gone to his knees over that. 

It hurts that much. 

The music has faded out and the band is making some sort of announcement that he doesn't hear, because he's got Natasha's hand gripped tight in his and he's turned her just a bit, jerked his chin in Coulson's direction, because he's been leaning against the wall observing the dancefloor right beside Director of SHIELD Nicholas R Fury, and they've both started heading their way. Nat cocks an eyebrow at him and he opens his mouth to growl out a non-committal answer, a verbal shrug, when suddenly the band picks up again and he recognizes the song, a sharp swing that they've danced to before. 

What the hell, right? Half the reason he's here is to make Coulson jealous. 

Tilting his head ever so slightly toward the dancefloor, he's unspeakably relieved when Nat laughs, smiles, and turns her back on the Director to follow him onto it again. He leads her into the fast-paced Tango that is his specialty, the one he's never gotten to pull out on a SHIELD op. It's not his favorite – he's got a soft-spot for pole dancing – but it's a lot classier and a lot flashier and it shows them off as a couple to their full advantage; putting his upper body strength on display along with Natasha's legs. His heart pounds and his blood races as he falls into the dance, swirling and swinging her along, pulling her into the turns and the hand-offs like they've never stopped doing this. It's fighting as much as dancing, sparring as much as sex, and he knows what it looks like to everyone else in the room, but there's only one person's face he suddenly wants to rub it into. 

The dance is over only a few pulse-pounding moments later, and they freeze into the final position as applause erupts around them – genuine enjoyment from some, nervous politeness from others. Clint lifts Natasha back into a standing position as he realizes that the dancefloor had practically cleared to them, swallowing hard, but the Widow is smiling serenely even as Coulson and Fury stand close enough to the edge of the floor that they could reach out and grab her by the arm. 

"Come Little One," she says quietly, an intentional show of protectiveness. "Let me buy you a drink." 

Clint swallows again, harder this time, and brushes past Coulson to follow her to the bar. 

Well then. 

Time to rock-n-roll.

**AVAVA**

Sighing heavily, Phil Coulson rolls his shoulders and repositions himself against the wall of the ballroom, irritated with his situation far beyond what's warranted. It's of his own doing – he'd volunteered to chaperone SHEILD's annual All Souls Gala just as he has every year – so he has no right whatsoever to complain.

It's just... 

It sucks. 

It's a juvenile way of putting it, an understated way of putting it, but really, no other phrase sums it up better. He hadn't been particularly keen on finding his soulmate after he'd turned thirty-four, when he'd truly passed his prime. Married already to his work, hairline receding, reputation well-established as an android designed by the Director himself, he was hardly the catch he'd been in his early twenties, in his Ranger days. 

In truth it hadn't bothered him all that much. He'd found happiness in his life, enjoyed what he did, took _great_ enjoyment in what he did some days, and it wasn't like he'd been celibate or lonely. He had friends, close colleagues, even a date when he wanted one, and it had never crossed his mind that one day he would have to contend with his soul bonded being Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton. 

It's been two years since that day on the roof. He'd been so excited chasing him down, so proud that he would be the one to have the chance to offer the young archer a place among SHIELD's ranks. He knew how good the kid was, new how much better he _could be,_ and he was going to be a part of that. He'd hesitated to pull his gun but he'd done it anyway, and was smiling right up until the moment when skin met skin and suddenly there was a cascade of golden-hot light washing through his head, the surge of another heartbeat beneath his breast. 

He'd panicked – Phil allowed himself just enough comfort to admit to that. Reverted to his SHIELD training, thrown up his walls, and gotten as much physical space between them as possible. Ordering the remaining agents to get Barton onto the plane, he's disappeared into the abandoned building they were landed atop, found an empty staircase, and was sick over the railing. 

Not his finest moment. 

He's not insecure, alright, he's not. As he watches the dozens of men and women around him dance and drink and chatter, he knows that's the truth. Not insecure, just a realist, and at the time he'd thought that the best he could hope for was finding his soulmate in his sixties or seventies, when they were both retired and could spend their twilight years together pottering around some old farmstead out in the country. Instead he finds himself bonded to a kid some ten or fifteen years his junior, in the prime of his life and fighting fit, gifted beyond measure. 

It had been a shock to his system, a re-write of his world-script, and he had not handled it well. 

He'd avoided Clint for weeks after that, keeping a covert eye on the young agent as he blasts his way through basic training, shattering records as he goes. In nearly everything he does he proves himself, even if it takes blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish, and Phil is as goddamn proud of him as he is terrified. He knows the kinds of things the junior agents say about Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson, and after the first impression he'd provided he can't imagine what his bonded must think of him. 

He'd actually felt guilty at the time, calling Clint his bonded, like he had some sort of claim on the younger man. When Clint had finally started coming around, flirting and laughing and batting his eyelashes, it had all seemed like one big joke. He was an incorrigible flirt, everyone knew it, and while Phil seethed with jealousy he also didn't trust it, falling back on base professionalism as best he could. Nick laughed his ass off at Phil's expense, fully informed of the situation, told him to man-up and grow a pair, but by then it had seemed far too late for a coffee and a get-to-know-you date. 

It had only gotten worse. 

Clint was goofy and dorky and adorable, everything that Phil was not, and his every move only served to highlight the generational gap between them. He picked up on electronics and mechanics as quick as anything, learning how to pilot SHIELD's jets as easy as a child learns to ride a tricycle, and always seemed to have a quip or a pun for any situation. Phil had remained stiffly uncomfortable around him, and painfully shy, which he had an unfortunate habit of covering with brusqueness and disinterest, and slowly, Clint had stopped coming around. 

Only served to prove his point, but then suddenly, Clint was up for promotion and had come to Phil and asked if he would accompany him to SHIELD's All Souls Gala. 

Once again, he'd panicked, said no and run. 

It wasn't until later that evening that he'd learned Clint had already received his Level Three pins before coming to find him. 

He'd never felt like such a heel. 

So he'd signed up as a chaperone just like he always did, and hoped that Clint would show. He'd worn a thin, silk ribbon around his left wrist, just under the cuff of his sleeve, loitered in the corner and hoped, though he wasn't sure for what. 

Didn't matter – all those hopes had been crushed, and it was his own fault. 

Now here he is, another year later, and he feels like he's in the same position he was the last go-round, like no time has passed at all. He's a bad person, he thinks, because he's brought all this misery on himself, and sometimes he feels like he's caught Clint staring at him hopeless and upset. 

"You could have asked him." 

Phil sighs a second time, scowls. 

"Shut up," he mutters heatedly as Nicholas Fury, Director of SHIELD comes to lean against the wall beside him. "Wouldn't have made up for anything." 

"How do you know?" 

"I..." 

He doesn't, is the thing. He doesn't know much at all about Clint, except that he does. He knows that the man is an amazing archer, that he loves pizza and has a soft spot for dogs. He knows that he grins like a maniac when something new comes in on the range for him to try, and that Sitwell, Barton's handler, is constantly getting reports that the man has taken to the ventilation system to shoot Nerf darts at unsuspecting juniors. 

He knows that he's got incredible shoulders, and that his laugh makes Phil think of home before immediately making him sick with guilt. 

"Anybody out there?" he asks by way of answer, a blatant change of subject as he jerks his chin toward the crowd. 

They're here for a reason after all – as a rule, SHIELD doesn't care all that much about soulbonds. 

"Stark is here to meddle, as always," Fury grunts, rolling his eye in an uncharacteristic display of exasperation. "Wilson's still walking around." 

"Going to have to do something about them both some day boss." 

"Don't you worry about that," Fury rumbles cryptically. "Eyes on the prize Coulson, eyes on the..." 

Phil blinks, surprised when Fury trails off into silence. There's very little in this world that can render his best friend speechless, so he's immediately put on high alert, his hand reaching for the gun tucked under his left arm. Following Fury's gaze, his fingers go numb and he feels his jaw drop. 

"Is that..." 

"Well fuck me," Fury states baldly, more shock in his voice than Phil has ever heard. "The Black Widow and Ronin." 

Phil stares in silence as the ninja dressed in black and gold armor leads the infamous Widow down the stairs to the dance floor and pulls her into a waltz, dismissive to the sudden harsh whispers skirting through the crowd. It's comprised of mostly SHIELD agents – good for them spotting the wolves amid their flock – but for god's sake people, a little subtlety. 

"Pinch me Coulson, I must be dreaming." 

"Not this time Director," Phil counters, crossing his arms and leaning forward, a hound catching the scent. "Though I'd never thought I'd see the day." 

"Did we know they knew each other?" he growls as Ronin leads his partner expertly across the dancefloor, and Phil knows without asking that heads will be rolling in Intel by dawn. "How did we not know that they knew each other – we're a goddamn intelligence agency!" 

"Ronin's been off the map for a few years now," Phil hears himself say, startled when he feels his cheeks grow hot. 

He's staring. 

His professional interest in certain assets has always been strong. He's wanted the Widow for some time now, just as much as Fury, had wanted Hawkeye too. He'd never really considered Ronin – the man was a ghost in the system where Hawkeye was a legend and the Widow a cautionary bedtime tale – but here he is, laid out like bait on a line. Immediately he wants them both, the beautiful spider and the deadly ninja, but now it feels... wrong somehow. 

He'd wanted Hawkeye this same way, but it's all mixed up now with the way he wants Clint and it just... it feels wrong. 

The song begins to wind down and Fury pushes off the wall, ready to make his approach. Phil follows, shooting his cuffs just to remind himself of the ribbon tied snug around his wrist. It's silly but he hopes that he can make a better impression this time, not make a fool of himself the way he had on his last recruitment mission, and he thinks that perhaps the unexpected nature of Ronin and the Widow's appearance might be a good thing. 

Not to mention, he can hardly be meeting his soulbonded for a second time, can he? 

Nothing to throw him off balance. 

Except that the Widow sees them coming, and turns her back on them in favor of another dance with her partner. 

Which, yes, those that attend the Gala are widely understood to be immune to things like arrests and interrogations, but it needles at him that she's so blatant in her dismissal. A heavy piano beat begins and suddenly Ronin is spinning the Widow across the floor in a quick, competent tango, and it's nothing more than sheer sex on the dancefloor. They move together like a single person, anticipating, compensating, and he can see the way they would fight together if they had to, the way they would fight _against_ each other. Slowly the other dancers clear the space until only the two of them are left, putting on a blatant show, and yes, yes, they know each other. 

"I think they more than know each other Boss." 

Fury just glares. 

Their tango comes to an end to a smattering of applause, and Phil feels like he needs to step outside for a breath of fresh air. There's too much heat, too much knowing between them to make these two anything less than partners in the truest sense, which could be a blessing or a curse for him. The Widow has a delicate black ribbon wrapped around her left wrist, slender red rose buds and a glittering black pin slightly less traditional than one would expect, and Ronin's covered from head to toe in armored black, not an inch of skin bared, so it's very possibly the two have bonded to each other. 

Possible too that they're bonded to others, or simply uninterested in bonding at all, and he's not sure which of the three he prefers. 

Something has the hair on the back of his neck standing up, his senses on high alert, and he's getting his tongue under control to make his customary _Phillip J Coulson, Agent of SHIELD_ introduction when the Widow gives him a smirk that sends a chill racing down his spine, calls Ronin to her side, and passes them up for the bar like she doesn't know exactly who he is. 

Fury blinks, stands there with his jaw actually dropped, and Phil barks a stunned laugh. 

"I like her," he offers as they turn to follow the pair toward the bar. "I want her." 

"What about him?" Fury asks, because he wouldn't assign the Widow to any other handler. "I'm guessing they're a package deal." 

Phil glances over the crowd to the edge of the bar where the Widow has perched herself on the single, available stool, Ronin standing over her like a protective shadow. 

"Both," Phil decides, pausing to turn and face his friend, his Director. "Both Nick." 

"You sure about that?" 

Phil lifts an eyebrow, confused, but Nick just jerks his chin back toward the bar, and when Phil turns, his heart stops in his chest.

**AVAVA**

Last chance.

She doesn't have to say it out loud, he knows it's his last chance. 

Knows she's pushing him too, buying him a drink. 

It's vodka, harsh and cold and so very Russian, served in tiny shot glasses sparkling clear. Agent Janson is bartending, and is eyeing them both the way any good agent should be, but Clint ignores him, too preoccupied with his own pounding heart. 

Last chance, last chance to walk away from this with his third and last identity still intact, and... 

And Coulson's still watching him. 

He could feel the man's gaze on him from the start, feeling it burning through his armor the whole time he was on the dance floor with Natasha, can _still_ feel it... 

There's _want_ there, and maybe it's stupid and maybe it's pathetic but he wants Coulson to look at him like that. 

Swallowing hard, Clint takes a deep breath, reaches up, and shoves his hood back off his head, the built-in mask coming with it. He can hear a handful of sharp exclamations but he manages to ignore them, pulling his cowl down around his throat and baring his entire face to the room at large. Natasha's smiling, delighted and dangerous, and he tugs his gloves off hastily before dragging his hand back and forth through his hair, scalp sweaty. 

"I'm proud of you," she murmurs in Russian, and then she's lifting her glass and waiting, ever-patient. 

Hands steady, even though he wants to scream, he lifts his glass and touches it to hers. 

"Love is for children," she reminds him as they toast each other, and Clint practically snorts into his shot. 

"Because it makes bad choices," he mutters around the rim, and then they're throwing back the vodka, oil-slick and sweet, and Janson is standing there with the bottle in his hand like he's never seen Clint before. 

"Barton?" 

"I believe you have patrons Agent Janson." 

Clint's throat closes up but he forces himself not to flinch at the sound of his soulbonded's voice, reminds himself that he's here as Ronin, the badass-in-black, the peerless assassin. With one smooth movement he reaches out and snags the bottle out of Janson's hand as he turns to go, poor guy nearly fumbling it when Clint moves in his direction. Natasha smirks, then thanks him politely when he refills their glasses. Both drink, and he fills them one more time before they both turn to face the two men waiting for them; Fury's face living up to his name and Coulson's a blank mask. 

Shrugging magnanimously, because really, what else can he do, he gestures between them and makes the introductions. 

"Natalia Alianova Romanova," he says, formal but soft, "Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD." 

"Pleasure," she says warmly, offering him her hand. 

Both men blink at her and Clint bites his lip to hide a smirk, because Nat does love to keep men on their toes, giving them exactly what they aren't expecting. 

Fury pulls himself together in record time – anyone who wasn't Clint might not have even seen the hesitation. Accepting her handshake, he flicks Clint a glare, mouth grim. 

"Miss Romanova, the pleasure is mine," he replies, formal in his own way what with the lack of curse words. "SHEILD has been hoping to host you for some time now." 

"You do throw a lovely gala Director," she acknowledges. 

Clint feels himself blush and he drops his eyes – she's needling Coulson but he's the one feeling the prick. Draining his third shot, he neglects to refill it because he'd keep drinking all night if he let himself. Instead he reaches behind the bar and fetches up two of the little hor d'oeuvre plates that have been set out, ready for serving, and passes one over to Nat. 

Very suddenly Coulson shifts on his feet, a nervous tell that looks ridiculous on him, because he doesn't have nervous tells. Clint cocks an eyebrow, flicks a glance at Nat, but she just looks at his wrist pointedly and lifts a tiny avocado toast to her lips. 

Oh. 

Right. 

He's wearing a ribbon. 

Stupid, he scolds himself, drawing his hand back to his side of the table so the edge of his bracer slips down to cover the thick cuff of woven black ribbon. 

Stupid to think... 

But fuck it, he's bonded and it's his choice to honor that bond, whether Coulson wants to play along or not. 

Straightening his shoulders, he pops a miniature beef-and-mushroom pinwheel into his mouth and leans back against the bar, giving Coulson, and to a lesser extent Fury, a good long look at him. He's not the same scrawny, undernourished kid he was when Coulson shot him two years ago. He's grown two inches, packed on the muscle, and is now one damn fine hunk of man, thank you very much. He doesn't really know what Coulson's type is, doesn't really care beyond the fact that he hopes his bonded isn't physically repulsed by him, but he knows what he looks like and is happy to use it to his advantage. 

More to the point, he's Ronin right now, not Hawkeye or Agent Barton. Cold, stone-faced, serious, he normally would have cracked a joke by this point or made some kind of innuendo, but instead he's all sniper, all samurai, all _business._ Still, silent, observant, waiting, and from the way Fury's eye roves over him he gets the point. 

Clint doesn't dare look at Coulson. 

"Can I safely assume then," he asks slowly, looking between the both of them, "Given your presence here, that Ronin and the Widow are amenable to working with SHIELD?" 

Nat glances at him, lifts a delicate eyebrow. 

"Asses, you and me," Clint mutters in Russian under his breath, because he knows that Russian is one language Fury doesn't know, that Coulson struggles with. 

Natasha giggles like a schoolgirl. 

"We're amenable to a discussion, of course," she says brightly, and she sounds young and sweet and not at all dangerous, the biggest lie she's never told. "A little birdie told me you have excellent health care plans." 

Coulson makes a choking sound and when Clint risks a glance he looks like he's swallowed his tongue, but Fury's just glaring at him irritably. 

"Don’t think we won't be talking about that too," he growls, narrowing his eye. 

Clint just nods. 

"Sir." 

"Excellent," Nat smiles, clapping her hands together like any young, excited socialite. "We're looking forward to negotiating a contract with you. Enjoy the rest of your evening gentlemen." 

Smiling in the face of their stunned expressions, no doubt surprised by her dismissal, Natasha extends a hand toward him and he helps her down off her stool. 

"We'll be at the Conrad," she says, and this time Coulson is silent, but the glower on his face could cut glass. 

"Nat, it's All Souls Night," Clint murmurs, placating even as he does his best to ignore the feelings that look stirs up. "We won't get a room." 

"Of course we will," she says with a sly smile, lifting the hand she still has in her grip and turning it over to bare the underside of his wrist. "Don't you remember Bangkok?" 

"I think you and I remember Bangkok very differently," he answers carefully, his stomach suddenly full of lead as her fingers work open the knots in his ribbon and strip it off his wrist. 

Offering him an arch look, she rolls the ribbon neatly around two fingers before placing it carefully onto the bartop. Removing her own, she uses the pin needle and a neat twist to thread it into her hair. 

"I very much doubt that," she argues off-handedly, shaking out her skirt. "At least the Conrad offers complimentary champagne and strawberries for the newly bonded." 

Clint's heart seizes up in his chest and he busies himself tucking his gloves into his belt, grabbing the vodka bottle off the bar. It's true that they've done that before, faked their bonding - a couple of times in fact - and it had worked out nice in Bangkok because the inn was full until they'd spouted some bullshit about being newly-bonded, but it... 

It feels different this time. 

If he hadn't met Phil he would've thought Natasha was supposed to be his soulmate, his professional bond partner. She's his sister, his match, and he would never give her up, not even for Phil Coulson, but... 

But. 

She's not waiting for him, and Coulson hasn't said a word. 

He's glaring after Natasha like he would strike her dead if he could, but that doesn't really say anything, doesn't mean anything. 

So Clint does the only thing he can; turns around and walks away.

**AVAVA**

Phil can't breathe.

He doesn't know what's happening and he can't breathe. 

He feels Fury's hand on his shoulder, shoving him down onto the bar stool, and all he can see is the back of Clint's head disappearing into the crowd, trailing after the Black Widow and out of his life. 

At least that's what it feels like. 

How did he miss this, how could he not... 

His goofy, sloppy, ridiculous soulbonded is _RONIN,_ one of the deadliest, most competent assassins SHEILD had ever come across, friends, apparently, with the other, the Black Widow. 

"Well hell Cheese, he really is perfect for you." 

"What..." 

It's hardly a question. He practically _squeaks_ it, and Fury cocks his eyebrow, completely unimpressed. Phil swallows hard, sucks in a deep, painful breath and straightens his tie in an unmistakable nervous tell. 

"I don't understand." 

Fury sighs, scowls, shakes his head and reaches over the bar just like Clint had to snag another bottle of alcohol, low-shelf scotch. 

"I always thought he was a good match for you Coulson," he grumbles, fishing around and coming up with two glasses, pouring out a finger each. "You need someone who can pull the stick out of your ass every once in a while. Thought maybe you were running scared 'cause he was a little too much, a little too... obnoxious..." 

Phil makes a small, angry sound of denial but Fury cuts him down with a glare, so he shuts up, lifts his glass and downs the harsh, smoky whiskey in one gulp. 

"Didn't realize he had all _that_ in him." 

Phil hadn't either. 

Ronin, fuck. 

He's gorgeous. 

It... that is to say, he... 

Well he was always attractive. Phil is man enough to admit that. And contrary to popular opinion, he hadn't run because he found Clint _obnoxious..._

It wasn't that. 

It had been surprise, and anxiety, and confusion and guilt and just... oh a hundred things, but it wasn't that he didn't _like_ the man. 

He was Phil's _soulbonded;_ how could he not like him? 

No, Clint really was a certain kind of perfect, just like Fury thought, smart and funny and he did make Phil laugh, just... in a creepy, second-hand way, jokes heard through the SHIELD rumor mill or antics glimpsed off security cameras. 

"God, what did I do?" Phil sighs, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. 

"You panicked," Fury answers with a magnanimous shrug. "I get it. You weren't ready, didn't have a plan, and God knows you don't do anything without a few of _those_ in the back pocket. But I gotta tell you Phil, you kinda screwed the pooch after that." 

He had, hadn't he? 

Rejected Clint again and again, to what? To protect himself, to perpetuate his own unfounded beliefs instead of taking a risk on... 

Phil blinks and finds himself twisting the thin black ribbon tied round his wrist between his fingers, worrying it like a talisman beneath the edge of his cuff. 

"I'm guessing this is your last chance." 

Phil looks up, finds Fury staring at him intently, his hand wrapped around the neck of the scotch bottle where it rests on the table next to a neat coil of... 

Ribbon. 

Clint had... 

Clint had been wearing a ribbon. 

That had to _mean_ something didn't it, had to... 

Did he still have a chance? 

"I need to go." 

He says it before he knows he's going to, is on his feet and picking up that little scrap of satin hope before he has a plan, and isn't that just the way it should be? No plan, no thought, but this time it's taking him toward something instead of away from it, and maybe... 

"Get gone, asshole," Fury grumbles, pouring out a second drink for himself. "Try to send the Widow back my way; I'd love to read her in, and if you know what's good for you you'll need the time." 

Phil sneers at him but does as he's told, tucks the ribbon into his breast pocket and goes. As he shoulders his way through the crowd, the revelry and excitement of the crowd, his intention settles into the pit of his belly like a warm, comforting weight, while still sparking and jumping with nerves. The flash of jealousy he'd felt when he'd realized that it was _Clint_ dancing with the Widow, _his_ soulbonded touching her and being touched by her, sharing a drink, allowing her to take his ribbon from his wrist – it's still simmering and it's hot in his blood, and very, very suddenly it hits him all at once, everything that's happened over the last two years. 

He's hurt himself and he's hurt Clint by rejecting their soul bond, and for no good reason whatever but his own stupidity. 

He can only hope Clint gives him the chance to fix things.

**AVAVA**

Chomping down on a juicy, chocolate-covered strawberry, Clint kicks his feet up onto the plush, white ottoman and settles deeper into the couch, his armor shed and hung carefully in the closet. He's down to soft black slacks and his dress socks, and rather than hunt up a shirt he's shrugged into the casual suit jacket that had been Natasha's Option 2 for the gala. Comfort, that's what he needs, and he's not bothering to hide it the way he normally would. He's with Nat, Nat's safe, and really, his chest hurts so much he doesn't think he'd do a good job of it if he tried.

Walking along the length of the couch behind him, Natasha ruffles his hair affectionately before coming around to sit at his side, handing him a glass of champagne from their complimentary bottle and selecting a strawberry for herself. 

See, this, _this_ is the kind of thing he wants, just the two of them completely comfortable with each other, feet on the coffee table, food scattered around, Dog Cops on the giant flatscreen... 

So what if he'd rather it be his soulbonded next to him, boxes of pineapple fried rice and coconut curry chicken (their mutual favorite) on the couch between them. So what if his heart is positively breaking, if he can feel a pain and an ache that’s not just his making his lungs seize up. 

He's got Nat, and she's promised it's going to be ok, and he... 

He practically comes out of his seat when a knock sounds at the door. 

Nat offers him a gentle, sideways smirk that says _'I love you, but I told you so,'_ hands him her glass and gets to her feet. She's all ease and confidence as she heads toward the door, but Clint isn't so sure and is on his feet too, palming one of the pistols he'd left on the suite's sideboard. He trusts the sanctity of the rules of All Souls Night, of SHIELD's twist on the gala, but that doesn't make him complacent, doesn't make him stupid. 

Slipping to the edge of the room, he waits at the ready as Nat peers through the peephole, smirking at him over her shoulder before opening the door. He trusts he judgement, of course he does, but the revolver is still up and cocked and he's still stunned silly when he sees Phil Coulson standing on the threshold, disheveled like he'd run all the way across town, damp from the light rain that had started up on their way to the Conrad. 

"Agent Coulson, please, come in," Natasha says with a sweet smile, stepping back and gesturing him inside. 

Phil hesitates, his eyes flicking to Clint and then back again before he nods and steps through the door, walking awkwardly across the room to take up a nervous position near the windows. Nat casts him a glare that gets him moving, easing back the hammer of his revolver and putting the gun down again as he straightens from his ready position. He can feel Coulson staring at him but he's not ready for this, even as much as he wants... 

He doesn't know what he wants. 

Snatching his champagne glass from the end table where he'd left it, he swigs the last of the bubbly and fills the flute up again with the vodka he'd swiped from the gala, moving away to lean against the credenza so Nat can't smack him for being so uncouth. She follows him anyway, snatches away glass and bottle both before collecting her own, along with the champagne. 

"Can I offer you a drink Phil?" she asks, gesturing with the bottle even as she moves past him to organize the mess in the en suite kitchenette. 

The man jerks at the familiarity, but Clint might be even more surprised than he is, shocked that the unflappable Agent Coulson looks... flapped. 

"No, thank you Miss Romanova," he manages, his voice tight, and Natasha titters a laugh like windchimes, a sound that should seem affected but that Clint knows to be honest. 

"Please, call me Natasha," she says, gathering up the long wool coat she'd worn to the gala from the back of a chair. "I have the feeling we're going to be good friends you and I. Or am I mistaken?" 

A spark shoots down Clint's spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he recognizes the challenge she's throwing down, and he opens his mouth to argue, to beg her not to do this, but Coulson beats him to it. 

"I'd like that very much," he says softly, but when Clint turns he's looking at _him,_ not Nat. 

"I'm glad to know it," Clint hears her say, and then she's kissing his cheek and whispering Russian words of luck in his ear and disappearing out the door. 

"Wait, Nat, don't..." 

He's too late. 

Swallowing hard, he crosses his arms over his chest, then feels ashamed for doing it, turns instead to look his soulbonded dead in the eye with his hands loose in his pockets. 

Only... 

Only Phil's looking anywhere but at him, and twisting something round and round his fingers, and Clint makes a small, pained sound when he realizes what it is. 

"You wore this." 

He blinks, meets Coulson's eyes because he's finally lifted his head, his gaze all nervousness and guilt. 

"You wore this, to the gala." 

"My choice," he says gruffly, because he's a little bit angry and a little bit sad, and because it's the honest truth. "I'm bonded; I wasn't looking." 

"Then what were you..." 

Coulson shuts up so quick his teeth click together, and Clint almost winces in sympathy. 

Almost. 

He's... he _is_ mad though, see? 

Mad and a little bit tipsy. 

Confused too, because why the fuck is Coulson even here, unless it's to kick his ass out of SHIELD for keeping secrets... 

Blowing out a breath, because damn if that doesn't seem the most likely option, he digs his phone out of his pocket and flops back down on the couch, relishing Coulson's blink of surprise pettily. 

"Look, if you're here to fire me, could you wait twenty minutes to do it?" he asks, tapping away at the app on his phone before tossing it onto the coffee table. "I drank too much and the tiny food fad is crap – I need like, at least half a pizza in me before I can deal with... all _this."_

"I'm not..." 

Clint looks up from making his vague gesture, only to find Coulson fidgeting with his cuffs anxiously. 

"I'm not here to fire you Clint," he says at last, and then he does something that Clint never expected him to do, not in a million years. 

Unclipping his cufflink, he opens the button on his suit cuff and pulls it back, folding the edge of his sleeve up his forearm to reveal the thin, silk ribbon beneath. It's simple, a single, flat band of black, but damn if it doesn't set Clint's heart to thundering in his chest. 

"I owe you an apology," Coulson says softly, shame-facedly. "And an explanation. If you... that is if you'd allow me that. I certainly don't deserve it." 

Clint's breath catches and Natasha's words to him on the cab ride over echo in his ears, a gentle reprimand. 

_He never hated you Little Bird, that much is obvious. You are too close to this – you must give him a chance to explain himself. You always did see better at a distance._

"Nat says we got off on the wrong foot," he croaks, and god he sounds wrecked, like he's swallowed glass. 

He can feel his own heart racing and the echo of his soulbonded's right behind it, and he wants, oh god does he want. Very suddenly he feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall over the side, that the very next choice he makes will determine whether he flies or falls and he doesn't know what that choice is yet. 

Phil licks his lips, plays with the ribbon around his wrist, takes a breath and squares his shoulders and looks him in the eye. 

"I'd like to try again," he says, "If that's something you'd be open to." 

Clint tilts his head, stares at him hard, wonders if fate could possibly get it wrong. 

Aw, screw it, things can't really get worse can they? 

Taking a couple of steps across the room, his sticks out his hand and offers it for a shake. 

"Clint Barton," he says, "World's Greatest Marksman." 

Relief, and something like admiration flickers across Phil's face before he reaches out and takes Clint's hand in his own firm, steady grip, a genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

"Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD." 

Touching him a second time feels just as good as the first, and Clint feels his heart settle in to a calm, steady beat, perfectly matched by his bonded's, for the first time in two years.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the link for a pic of Clint's after-gala lounge look ;)
> 
> https://beneficialaddiction.tumblr.com/post/170706912670/dont-deny-your-vital-signs


End file.
